


To Fix What Can Be Mended

by naotalba



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-17
Updated: 2008-12-17
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naotalba/pseuds/naotalba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Characters:  Will and Gov. Swann<br/>Specific request: For   <span class="ljuser i-ljuser i-ljuser-type-P"></span><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://veronica-rich.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://veronica-rich.livejournal.com/"></a><b>veronica_rich</b> Something set between CotBP and DMC, either before or after the engagement, that shows how these two would relate to one another as "father" and "son." It can be friendly or not, but you get bonus points for throwing in an argument or disagreement. *G*<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fix What Can Be Mended

**Author's Note:**

> I am archiving my old LJ fic.  
> Beta: Thanks to [](http://justawench.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://justawench.livejournal.com/)**justawench**. Remaining errors are mine.

After Margaret and the boys were decently buried, he considered remarrying, of course. But Elizabeth being so strong-willed, there was just too much likelihood of strife with another female in the household. Weatherby Swann had enough strife in his life without bringing it home to roost as well.  
  
He tried to keep track of the Turner boy. Nothing unseemly, but a discreet eye nonetheless. Today, for instance, it occurred to him that the lad had no hat, and he looked quite the ragamuffin. He set his mind to seeing if he could remedy the lack next market day.

Margaret's passing had robbed him of the chance for another son, and young William was strong and healthy. His own sons had been wisps of boys, so fair the sunlight seemed to pass straight through them, and spindly as well. Margaret said it was often that way, with twins, and that they would grow stronger in the tropical sunshine.

And perhaps if the fever hadn't caught them, she would have been right. But the fever took them, and her with them, just weeks before they were to leave. He'd tried to keep his distance from the boys, not spoil them the way Elizabeth was so clearly spoilt. But sometimes, he could still hear Michael's giggle, see the way Mark bit his lip when he'd been caught misbehaving, and Weatherby would be reminded forcibly that the boys had been dear indeed to him, and not just as a way to pass on his name.

On market day, he saw a fine cocked hat just the blue of Mark's favorite toy boat, another with a peacock feather Michael would have pulled free in minutes. His boys were good about keeping their hats on. The few times they forgot, their pale skins would burn and send them to bed with fevers for weeks, even in the English sun. Turner had been running around hatless for weeks now, with nothing to show but a sprinkling of freckles across his nose.

In the next row of stalls beyond the cocked hats, there was a rack of work caps, plain and serviceable, perfect for a strong lad to keep the sweat from his eyes while he worked. He found a gray muslin cap that looked Turner's size, and paid for it quickly before turning to find a trinket for Elizabeth.

The Turner boy grew straight and handsome, under the watchful eye of Weatherby's cook, who took him in alongside her own Thomas without a word of complaint. When it came time for the boy to be apprenticed, Weatherby took a discreet look at the work of the craftsmen at the local fair. Without a doubt, the blacksmith was the superior craftsman, with blades as fine as any available at home. The man himself seemed surly, but perhaps he was merely ill that morning; with skill such as that, Weatherby was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. And if Brown was taciturn, perhaps it was for the best, to toughen the boy up and set him on the right path.

The 'prenticeship was quickly arranged, with a quiet arrangement that Weatherby would be shown samples of the boy's work regularly, to gauge his progress. And if Weatherby took a minute to visit with the lad, when his 'order' was delivered, well, who could blame him?

The first visit, the boy had suspected nothing when he delivered a very-nearly-correct horseshoe, having been told one was needed to place on the stable wall for luck. He was struck by the coincidence, of course, of having completed his first assignment just as word reached of the Governor's need, but rambled on, oblivious to its purpose. Elizabeth was thrilled by the superstition, and Weatherby quickly regretted the choice.

A year later, tent stakes for a garden party were delivered, but the boy was needed to help set the tent, and Weatherby could merely nod at the boy before going back to his own arrangements, wishing futilely that Elizabeth paid the proper attention to these women's matters of fiddly party planning details. When the garden had been declared ready for guests, Weatherby turned to visit with the boy, but he had already slipped away.

When the candlestick came, the lad was surly and arrogant, bragging openly that the work was his, although it was nothing to brag of. The metal was poorly tempered, and would doubtless break if anyone were foolish enough to put a candle in it. He'd dressed the boy down firmly, and implied he'd be taking his trade elsewhere. The boy flinched at that, his youthful distemper fading quickly to boyish pouting.

The boy's breeches were too tight, which Weatherby would have put down to sudden growth, but the raggedness at the hem convinced him otherwise. He sent a runner to Brown the next day, with a small stipend and orders to get the boy properly clothed. That age was awkward enough for a lad alone in the world without dressing below his station. He sent Thomas to the smithy a week later to see if the orders had been followed. Thomas reported that Will was delighted with the visit, and offered to mend the now-broken candlestick, if Weatherby were to have it brought by.

Thomas offered to do so immediately, but Weatherby stopped him. It would be better, perhaps, for him to go himself, make sure the boy was being well treated. He couldn't bring himself to see how the boy had filled out, though, how the hard work of the smith had made the strong young lad stronger. He spent the next year feeling the candlestick remonstrating with him every time he went through the entranceway.

A dagger was delivered by a young man, not a lad anymore. The dagger was adequate, but the young man was a polite stranger who had eyes only for Elizabeth peeking out the library doorway. He stammered excuses for why he would have to return, something about an order for the kitchen that seemed unlikely, but Weatherby let the matter go. He did have a quiet word with Elizabeth afterwards, not warning against the boy directly, knowing her contrary streak, but rather pointing out that gentlemen preferred ladies, and that skulking around corners was hardly ladylike.

And then a sword came, and it exceeded the craftsmanship of any Weatherby had seen. It was a little saddening, with Elizabeth soon to marry and now the Turner lad ready to set up a shop of his own.

The last delivery was a set of half-pin barrel hinges, delivered with a sheepish air but a firm sense of right and wrong in replacing what had been broken. Afterwards, he'd taken tea with Elizabeth while Weatherby gave them what privacy he could. Oh, they were sneaking off to be together in the evenings, as promised couples were wont to do, but the cook assured him it was to play at swords and not for anything more untoward. Thomas had only had to "happen upon" them the once, and to hear him tell, it was the Turner lad, and not Elizabeth who had blushed like a maiden.

But in the afternoons, they could be together only with Weatherby in the room, curled up with his account books at the other end of the room. He abandoned all attempts at work when he heard Elizabeth speak of Margaret. The girl nearly always refused to bring up her motherless state, too proud at being the lady of the house to mention her loneliness and risk losing her status. But she spoke softly to Turner about Margaret's fair hair, and her brothers' talents for mischief. Weatherby had thought she had forgotten them.

Turner, for his part, told of a mother with hard eyes and a loud voice, a firm hand and a soft bosom. The lad missed her terribly still, but seemed merely wistful at the lack of a father.


End file.
